


Truce

by Corycides



Series: Tumbling On [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Unseasonable Christmas Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:31:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas truce makes for strange bed-fellows</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penndragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penndragon/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: BASS/CHARLIE I KNOW YOU’VE WRITTEN THIS PAIRING (AND YAY!) BUT SOMETHING NEW WOULD BE AWESOME :D

It was nearly Christmas. One day to go. Back home Dad would have draped strings of popcorn around the house and put their presents, wrapped in scraps of traded for cloth that was a present in itself, up out of reach of sticky fingers. Maggie never could resist peeking on Christmas Eve. She said it was a Christmas tradition. Danny wouldn't even shake his until Dad said it was time.

Now they were all dead and Charlie was spending Christmas in an armed encampment while the Monroe Republic and the Georgia Federation discussed their war. That was the trouble with alliances, it turned out. When they were bigger than you, they called the shots.

Except just for a couple of days, Charlie didn't want to think about that. It was Christmas, and she'd a present still to give. She'd traded for the bottle in Georgia – emptying her pockets of every looted clip of gold – and if the man had told the truth it was pre-Blackout. Apparently it was Wild Turkey flavoured.

She hadn't – still wasn't – sure that she wanted to give it to Miles. He'd think it was a peace offering, and she wasn't ready for that. Not until he actually told her the truth. Him, not filtered through Nora and her hero worship or picked up in hints and asides from his banter with Jim.

Besides, she was pretty sure that he'd not got her anything. So she'd have to stand there while he searched his pockets and eventually gave her a bottle opener and a used knuckle duster.

Still. Who else did she have to give a present to? Jason had stayed in Georgia with his family. He'd asked her to stay - 'You'd be welcome,' he'd said, stroking her hair. 'My mom would love to meet you.' - but she'd rather die in a hole then spend Christmas day staring at the man who'd killed her Dad. So she might as well take the bottle to Miles.

There was no cloth to wrap it, but what the hell. Charlie wriggled into her heavy jacket and grabbed the bottle by its long, cold neck. She figured Miles wouldn't have time to wrap the knuckle duster either.

Charlie ducked out through the tent-flap – cold air stealing her breath – and pulled the hood up over her hair. A fresh fall of snow lay on the cleared path, crunching under her boots as she trudged through the torch-lit camp to Miles' tent. She nodded at a few of the rebels she knew, but there were fewer of them now. Luckily, for every rebel that died there were two Georgians to take their place. Foster could be generous, when it suited her.

Two militia guards stood outside Miles' tent. She faltered, stopping for a second, as she wondered why they were here. No one else looked worried. She braced herself and kept walking, giving the guards a stiff nod as their attention focused on her. After all this time, she was used to hating them. These two didn't look like Strausser or Alec, though. They just looked cold, miserable and like they'd rather be at the bar.

'Miles Matheson?' she said, cocking her head to the side. 'I have something to deliver.'

The guards – one ginger, one dark – traded looks. The dark guy wiped his nose on his glove, wiped that on his trousers (the part of Charlie that still remembered taking care of Danny nearly offered him a handkerchief to use) and nudged the flap aside to look in.

'A delivery for General Matheson,' he said.

After a second he leant back out and nodded to her. 'Go in.'

Charlie gritted her teeth against paranoia and squeezed past them into the tent, conjuring up a tentative smile for Miles. It took her a blink to adjust to the fact that it wasn't her uncle sprawled carelessly in the folding chair.

Monroe.

She went for her sword, but her fingers closed on air. Soldiers weren't allowed to carry weapons in the camp. Her hand cramped into a fist.

'Charlotte,' Bass said, raising his eyebrows. 'You're not who I was expecting.'

'Oh?' she managed.

'No,' he said, watching her. 'In the old days, a delivery was Miles' code for a whore.'

Heat flushed through her and she looked away from him. It was stupid to be flustered. She knew Miles hadn't been celibate. He'd been pretty clear about wanting to be non-celibate with Maggie till he found out she was Dad's widow. It was just hearing Monroe say it, the familiarity of it.

'Yeah, well, I'm not,' she said.

'I know,' he said, sounding amused. 'You're your mother's daughter.'

Her eyes snapped back to him. 'I'm not supposed to kill you,' she said quietly. 'So don't make me want to.'

His mouth twitched into a shadow of a smile. The expression faded quickly, as if it wasn't quite convinced it had permission to be there. 'If you had a sword, you'd be trying to kill me right now, Charlotte.'

'Don't make me want to kill you more,' she corrected herself. 'Better?'

She pulled the bottle from under her coat and gave Monroe a wide berth as she went to put it on the table. There was already a bottle there, the label so dusty she couldn't read it. It looked a lot more expensive than hers, and there was a good chance it wasn't local swill filtered into a bottle.

'Great minds think alike,' Bass said. 'And Miles drinks to forget.'

'To forget you,' Charlie said. She put the bottle down harder than she'd meant to, the clack making her flinch. Part of her, most of her, wanted to be cruel. To ask if he really thought Miles wanted a gift from him. He deserved cruelty, if anyone did. She was just too  _tired_ of hating him and not getting anywhere. 'Just tell him I left it.'

She turned to go, tucking her chin down into her collar.

'You could wait,' Monroe said, voice gone low and rough. It was still somehow precise. 'Have a drink with me.'

Charlie stopped and turned, staring at him. She licked her lips and shrugged her jacket off, fingers toying with her shirt buttons as she walked over to him.

'What do you think I'm going to do? Down two whiskeys and go down on you?' she asked, resting her hands on the chair and leaning in. Her knee slid between his, bracing on the edge of the seat. His glance dropped from her face to her boobs and back up again. It gave her a little jolt of power. 'I've seen you looking at me, General Monroe, watching me in camp. I can't stop you doing that – not here – but do you really think I'd let you touch me?'

She was close enough to kiss. For a second she hoped he would. That would give her the excuse she needed to  _hurt_ him. He didn't – quite. She felt his breath on her lips and smelt the oak and tanin sweetness of whiskey and cologne. Jason just smelt of sweat and blood usually. For a second she wondered if they'd taste different too.

Charlie pulled back, swallowing that stray thought hard, and smirked at Monroe. 'That's pathetic.'

Rage snapped across his face, behind his eyes, and was gone. The control scared Charlie a little, enough to take a step back. He stood up, straightening his jacket with fastidious hands.

'You're a lever with a nice ass, Charlotte,' Monroe said. He picked up the dusty bottle of whiskey and twisted the cap off, the seal crinkling as it broke. 'This is just whiskey. Unless you're scared what Miles will think if you drink with me?'

Charlie snorted. 'I'm not six, General Monroe.'

'Bass,' he said and tilted the bottle inquiringly. 'If we're drinking together.'

'I don't think that's a great idea, General,' Charlie said, reaching for her coat. 'You're not my idea of good company for Christmas.'

'Who is?'

'What?'

'Who is the 'good company' you'll be spending Christmas eve with instead of me?' he asked. She tried to hide her reaction to that, a dull misery at the thought of sitting alone in her tent thinking of her family. 'Even bad company is better than being alone.'

She shoved her hand through her hair, dragging it back. 'You're the reason I've no-one else.'

'Hate is better than being alone,' he said.

'That's probably the start of a lot of your problems,' Charlie said. Except he was right. It would have been better if Miles was here, if he'd hugged her and told her the truth and they'd spent the evening talking about Dad. He wasn't though, and at least hating Monroe was feeling something. 'I'll get the glasses.'

Cups actually. If he'd smirked she'd have thrown them at him and left. He didn't. Charlie took her drink and sniffed it, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

'Do you want water with that?' he asked.

'Fight like a Matheson, drink like a Matheson,' Charlie said, quoting Miles' usual justification for producing a bottle. She tossed back the drink, grimacing as the taste hit the back of her throat. 'Ew.'

'Stick with it,' Monroe told her, refilling the cup. He sat down and stretched his legs out, boots nearly touching her legs. 'It gets better.'

'You sure?' Charlie asked, stepping back. She wasn't really talking about the whiskey.

Monroe snorted and looked away, dragging his thumb over his lower lip. 'I'm sure that's not the whole saying,' he said. He tilted the cup towards her in a toast. 'Fight like a Matheson, drink like a Matheson and fuck like a Matheson.'

Heat crawled up into Charlie's cheeks. She ignored it and clinked her cup against his, although she stuck to sipping it this time.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 20 year old Islay whiskey lingered on Bass' tongue as he watched Charlotte Matheson slide off the edge of the cot. She folded herself up on the ground with the boneless carelessness of the still-young and unscarred. Three glasses had softened the edges and angles of her. He could see the Matheson in her, but not much of her mother – none of Rachel's impossible, elegant beauty. Even the eyes were Ben's.

Bass still wasn't sure what he was doing – watching her, drinking with her.

She just seemed lonely. So lonely that she was hoping to spent Christmas Eve with an old man she hardly knew. Bass wasn't so obtuse he couldn't see the parallels, right down to the whiskey. He didn't let himself feel much guilt – if he let it settle, he'd never get back up – but he couldn't shake the thought he'd made someone as lonely as him.

He knew it wouldn't help the loneliness, but at least he could make sure she didn't spend the night alone.

'Do you know, General Monroe,' Charlie said, twisting her hair back from her face. She pulled her knees up to her chest. 'I don't think Miles is coming back.'

She got her elbows on the cot and levered herself back up onto it, slim body arching back and her t-shirt sliding up to reveal a taut span of belly from hip bones to lower ribs. Bass wondered what it would be be like to run his thumb from her belly button to clavicle, how she'd move.

'He's probably throwing Clayton a Christmas bone,' he said absently.

Charlie stared at him and then burst out giggling, ending up back on the floor. She tried to hide behind her hands, but it would take more than that to hide that smile. It lit up her whole face, making her eyes sparkle with life. Want, abrupt and viciously urgent, yanked at Bass' guts.

'That's not funny,' Charlie said, trying to still the giggles. She wiped the tears out of her eyes on her sleeve and sat up straight. Bass watched the laughter get schooled back to solemnity as she remembered who he was. She scrambled – a bit unsteadily – to her feet. 'OK. I only came to give Miles his present and I think your whiskey's gone. I should go.'

No. That wasn't going to work. Not now. He wasn't even going to...he didn't  _have_ to touch her – but he wanted that smile. He wanted that warmth.

'So you only love me for my whiskey,' he asked smoothly, standing up to intercept her. 'That's OK. I've got more.'

There was  _always_ more whiskey. 

She rolled her eyes at him. 'Let me guess, back in your tent? I'm pretty sure that line was old before the Blackout, General Monroe.'

And yet, you're still here.'

The tanned line of her throat moved as she swallowed and this time when she smiled there was no joy there. 'You're better than nothing.'

He put his knuckle under her chin, lifting her gaze so she was looking at him. 'I can live with that.'

'Not sure I can.'

Bass traced her lower lip with his thumb. 'It's surprising what you can live with, Charlotte. You'll work that out.

'Promise?'

'Would you trust it?'

Her mouth twitched under his thumb, halfway to a smile. 'You're actually about the only one who hasn't lied to me. Threatened me, tried to kill me...but never lied.'

'I learned to live with being me,' he said. 'You'll be ok, Charlotte.'

'Go,' she said, giving him an abrupt shove.

He fell back a step. 'And you?'

She gave him a sly look as she pulled her coat on. 'You'll find out.'

Bass clenched his jaw in frustration with that answer. He didn't 'find out' if he was going to get what he wanted. He  _got_  what he wanted. People  _did_  what he wanted. Only he wanted Charlie to want him, and he couldn't intimidate her into that.

She left. Bass clenched his fists, tight enough for the bones to ache, and leant on the table until his temper subsided. He set the bottle upright, between the two empty cups. Let Miles wonder. He ducked out of the tent – shoving paranoia back as his guards both gave him sidelong looks. At least Charlie was straightforward about hating him.

Back in his tent he opened another bottle and poured himself a drink, adding ice to soothe the bitterness of still-brewed whiskey. He had just about convinced himself that Charlie had made a fool of him, bitterness clotting in his chest, when Baker showed her in. The lanky captain was the one person that Monroe thought he could – probably – trust. Even with this.

Baker gave him a 'WTF' look, but left without saying anything. Neither did Bass as he mutely offered Charlie his drink. She took a sip, her tongue flicking out as the ice bumped her lips, and handed it back to him.

'Miles will hate me,' she said.

'Me too.'

'He already hates you.'

It was true. It still hurt. Charlie pulled a face the minute the words left her mouth and reached for his hand, sliding her fingers through his. He remembered other hands – a long time ago – but that wound was too raw.

'Sorry,' she said. 'I just...spend a lot of time wanting to hurt you. Hard to remember to stop.'

He lifted her fingers and kissed her hand, scraping his teeth over the bony ridge of her knuckles. Her fingers twitched against his palm and her eyes were big and curious. 'As long as you're thinking about me, Charlotte,' he said.

'Always,' she admitted. The smile was still sad.

He hooked his fingers in her belt and pulled her in close, lowering his head to kiss her. Her mouth was sweet under his and, after a second, reassuringly hungry. She curled her hand around his neck, fingers digging into the muscle. Sharp teeth caught his lower lip, nipped and let go. Her tongue pushed back against his, the taste of shared whiskey potent.

They ended up on the floor in front of the stove, tugging at each other clothes with impatient, hurried hands. She pulled his shirt open, pressing ice-chilled lips against hot skin, and he shoved her jeans down over lean hips. One hand slid between her legs, his probing fingers finding her already wet.

'Tart,' he accused with a grin.

She slapped his shoulder. 'Dick.'

He gave her a quick kiss. 'Maybe later.'

Bass sat back and stripped her jeans off. He tossed them aside and stretched over to grab his drink from the table, sucking one of the ice cubes into his mouth. The cold made his teeth ache as he rolled the ice over his tongue, the sharp edges melting off.

Charlie tugged her shirt off and twisted out of her plain cotton bra. Her breasts were small and firm, nipples plump and pink. 'What are you doing?'

Instead of answering he nudged her knees apart and lay down between her thighs, hooking his arm across her narrow hips. He nuzzled the musky damp curls and swiped his icy-wet tongue over her hot, sweet-slick sex. She jerked and grabbed at his head, fingers twisting through his hair.

'Son of a bitch -' she said raggedly.

Bass smiled against the tender folds. Intelligence said that Charlie and the resurrected Neville son were...involved. Considering the amount of trouble the boy had caused Bass didn't object to cuckolding him, but he was going to make sure Charlie knew what she was missing. He'd met Jason Neville – he didn't seem the inventive sort.

He mapped the shape of her with tongue and lips and breath until he had her squirming, lifting her hips to open herself to his mouth. Long fingers tugged at his hair as she gave directions. 'Monroe, God, don't stop. Just there? That. Yes. There.'

Bass paid attention when it suited him, ignored her when it didn't. He wasn't Jason – he didn't need a map. He found the tight little knot of her clitoris, closing his lips around it. He sucked gently, pressing down with the tip of his tongue, until the trembling, wire-tautness of her muscles snapped and she came.

He propped himself up his elbow, wiping his hand over his mouth, and watched her shudder and whimper around the fist she'd pressed to her mouth. Muscles fluttered under the tight skin of her stomach. Bass crawled up her body, kissing his way up that long, tanned stretch of bare skin, until he was sprawled over her. Her breasts pressed against his chest and she took a ragged breath, chewing her knuckle, as the rough fabric of his jacket scraped against tender nipples.

'No-one is going to hear,' he told her, moving her hand. 'No-one who is going to tell Miles, anyhow.'

She linked her fingers through his. 'I don't want to talk about Miles.'

For once, neither did he.

'What do you want?'

He saw his death in her eyes, but she banished it with a smile and a lie. 'Take your clothes off?'

Bass rolled off her and got up, unlacing his boots and stripping out of the heavy layers of General Monroe. On the floor, Charlie folded her arms behind his head and watched with a mock-leer that faded into dark, sensual appreciation. As he kicked his trousers off her eyes fell to his groin, his cock aching-hard and craning towards his stomach, and her tongue dabbed over her lower lip.

She got up onto her knees and ran her hands up the heavy muscles of his thighs, her thumbs sliding up into the crease of his groin. Her hair brushed against him, thick and silky, as she pressed a wet, open mouthed kiss to the base of his cock. His balls clenched in a desperate knot of heavy want and if she kept that up, his plans for the rest of Christmas Eve would be ruined. Bass made a raw, reluctant sound and pulled her up to her feet.

'Not yet,' he said, leading her towards the bed and letting her push him down onto it. 'I want to fuck you first, I want to feel you come around my cock.'

Pink crept up Charlie's cheeks – that easy, betraying flush – as she crawled onto his lap.

'Well, maybe you should get on with it?' she suggested.

He kissed her throat, chewing his mark onto the sharp ledge of her collarbone. She gasped and reached down to guide his cock inside her. Her body squeezed tight and hot around the hard, length of him, pleasure snapping through his groin.

What he wanted was to roll her over and fuck her, with her legs wrapped around his hips and heels digging into his thighs. Instead he let her set the pace, her hands braced against his shoulders as she rocked her hips against him. He kissed her breasts, licking wet circles around the puckered pink buds, and stroked the long, flexing length of her back until he could cup the tight curve of her ass.

She used his hair as a handle to pull his head back, kissing him hard. Bass decided he'd been more than fair as far as letting her take control went. He rolled them over, pinning her hands down to the mattress, and thrust into her with hard, deep strokes. Charlie bit her lip and tilted her head back into the pillows, squeezing her eyes shut.

So she didn't have to see who she was fucking, who was making her clench and flutter around his cock. Bass thought about letting her, but he'd never been a generous man.

'Charlotte,' he said, letting command slide through his voice. 'Look at me.'

Habit opened her eyes, big and blue and dazed as she came for a second time. This time she didn't have a free hand to muffle her cries...and she didn't call him General or Monroe.

'Bass,' she gasped raggedly. 'Sebastian.'

He buried his head in her shoulder, breathing in the warm, sweet scent of her skin, as he came, emptying himself inside her. Afterwards he lay on top of her, fingers tangled in her hair, until she shoved him off with a grumbled accusation that he was heavy.

She was still there the next morning. Bass smoothed her hair back from her face and kissed her sleep parted lips.

'Merry Christmas,' he said.

She opened her eyes and blinked at him, then closed them again. 

'I still hate you.'

He kissed her shoulder. 'Spend Christmas Day with me, Charlie.' 

Her eyes popped open and she stared at him. 'I say I hate you, you ask me to stay? Why?'

Because...next year they could both be dead. She could be dead. Or happy – with Jason Neville to kiss her awake. This might be all he got.

 Why not?' he said.

 


End file.
